True Fae
The Kindly Ones. The Others. The Old Gods of Thistle. The Gentry. The Raksha. The True Fae. Such names don’t truly describe the powers of Arcadia, but don’t dismiss the power of names themselves. A True Fae’s name is a promise made to Arcadia. I vow to exist, they say, challenging the Wyrd to make it so. Birth is the hardest, mightiest oath of all. It screams at Arcadia, setting raw will against absolute, passionate chaos. The denizens of Arcadia have worn many names throughout the centuries, as humankind, chilled by its encounter with their alien otherness, attempts to fight the fear of the unknown with the power of naming. While their names are legion, those who have dwelled within their halls and dungeons, who have served in their kitchens and courtrooms and boudoirs, call them “the Gentry” or simply “the Fae.” The word “fairy” has been sanitized in recent years. The idea behind it has been so far separated from the original meaning as to be wholly unrelated, just as the innocent images of miniscule, winged women is almost wholly disparate from the reality of the True Fae. Originally, the word “fae” came from fatum, a vulgar Latin name for the Goddesses of Fate — forces capable of drawing out or cutting short a human life with the smallest of efforts. The Fates were allpowerful and unknowable to mortal minds. And, indeed, to those unfortunate mortals who cross their path, the Fae embody the term just as well. They can snatch a child from her former life as neatly as shears cut a tapestry cord, leaving only unraveling threads in their wake. And even to those who have spent decades as their servants, slaves, lovers or pets, the True Fae are beyond understanding. Though a Fae might be by turns warm or cold, bright or dark, even kind or cruel, each one is marred by the same flaw — they have no sense of compassion or empathy, no ability to comprehend or relate to a human being’s pain. Even their “kindnesses” can draw blood, and their favor is like an elegant and chill prison. The term “fae” has been applied to witches and demons, spirits and monsters, ghosts and goblins. Some associate it with the tall, elegant humanoids that the Celts called the sidhe. To others, fae may be miniature creatures with delicate wings, or watery horses with hooves of steel or keening ghosts that foretell death by their presence. All of these creatures may have been inspired by the True Fae, while none of them catch a significant portion of the truth. In their home realm, they are as powerful and incomprehensible as gods, or so say the changelings who were forced to serve them. Even when the Fae walk in the mortal world, any brief sighting captures but a single facet in a terrible and beautiful Fae jewel. Those who catch only a glimpse of them are awestruck by the beauty, cruelty, might and the alienness that surround them. And those who dare to venture nearer find that the more they seek to know the Fae, the more their minds, spirits and souls are warped by the very presence they seek to understand. To the changelings who have been abducted by the Fae, those who served beneath them and those fortunate few who have escaped their clutches, there is no doubt, however, as to the True Fae’s identity. They are demons, monsters and fiends, no matter how fair the form they may wear. Life is a Contract, and it brings obligations as fundamental as mortal breath and blood — and deeper still, for in Arcadia, living existence is more than mere appearance, solidity or even speech. Given the proper oaths, anything can populate the land of Faerie. A monster might talk, eat, even bleed and scream when cut, all without being alive in the way the Others are. For the Fae, life is more than metabolism and movement. It’s the difference between being a subject and an object: someone who acts, versus something that’s acted upon. They say the Old Gods of Thistle are immortal and by some standards, this is true. Given enough time, any fragment of Wyrd might erupt into breath and speech, even if it was “killed” beforehand. Nothing can stay the Wyrd when it shapes Arcadia. By these standards, the Gentry are immortal, in the classic sense: no force can make any part of Arcadia absolutely lifeless. This is no comfort for the True Fae, though. There’s life, and there’s'' life''. They prefer some versions of immortality to others. To move and respsawn like an idiot child of Faerie’s power means nothing to them. True life is mastery of the Wyrd, ironclad Contracts that bulwark a Kindly One’s identity and make it a lord of Arcadia who commands, and is not commanded. This is the primal passion, the true life of the Old Gods of Thistle, whose eyes are green-clad, living moons and whose fingers are the blades that end royal dynasties.